


And Other Games

by skund



Category: The Authority
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skund/pseuds/skund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Er, this has absolutely nothing to do with the prompt I was writing for. Actually, I don't know what this has to do with anything. Apollo and Midnighter spend a night on a rooftop, in their post-Stormwatch days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Other Games

He’d been gone later than he’d anticipated. The moon is almost visible above the towering skyline by the time Midnighter makes it back to the condemned building they’re calling home this week. The dirty starlight falls through the broken roof and reflects undisturbed off the puddles scattered across the floor. Midnighter huffs, breath misting on the cold, night air. Apollo is gone.

But he’s not hard to find - an inverse shadow laying on one of the more expansive patches of roof, belly pressed against the remnants of heat slipping from the stained concrete. He doesn’t turn as Midnighter approaches, but Midnighter knows he knows. He should reproach Apollo, for being complacent and too trusting, but he’d just pin Midnighter with that sunbeam smile and tell him to lighten up.

Midnighter kneels down beside Apollo and finally sees that something has him captivated. There’s a bar on the ground floor across the alley, a source of riotous noise and even stronger smell; hops, wet cardboard and sweat. Midnighter’s nose wrinkles, but he drops down too, stretching out beside his lover.

“What are you doing?” Midnighter asks. It’s a redundant question, but he wants to steal Apollo’s attention, just for a second. Not that he’s selfish.

Apollo takes a long time to answer, and does so without taking his eyes off the pub below, “Watching TV.”

Midnighter leans his head close to Apollo’s, trying to capture his eyeline, and sure enough there’s a large screen on the wall of the pub; blue figures and red figures running across a brilliant stretch of green. Some kind of team sport. There’s a dull twinge somewhere in the back of his brain – part of his mind that possibly knew the game more, cared more, but is now dead. Probably incorporated into part of his tactical processors. Or memory storage. Or his internal chronometer, for all he knew. He studies the profile of Apollo’s face, haughty in the dirty, city light.

“Why?”

Apollo finally looks at him. “Why not? Isn’t that what people do?”

Midnighter shrugged. Like he was any authority on people.

“They’re winning,” Apollo said, then elaborates when Midnighter raised an inquiring eyebrow, “the red ones.”

“Oh,” Midnighter replies noncommittally.

“What did you get?” Apollo nodded towards the soggy, paper bag Midnighter clutched in his fist, almost forgotten.

“Pizza. It’s almost still warm.”

It’s Apollo’s turn to wrinkle his nose. Midnighter drops the bag nonchalantly between them. They feels better when they eat; more human, more real. But four nights straight of cold pizza and the appeal is starting to wear thin.

Apollo hisses sharply the same moment the bar below them erupts into a roar. The colourful men on the screen are running around with their arms in the air. Midnighter smirks at the chaos, but Apollo doesn’t respond. Drinks and back slaps are flowing freely in the bar below. Midnighter relaxes against Apollo’s side.

Their night is as vacant as the star-less sky hanging over their heads. They’ve been six months on the run, but their freedom is not so old that Midnighter doesn’t occasionally revel in it. They might go out, find some of the less virtuous members of society and break their skulls. Or maybe they’ll walk down to the bay and watch the city lights dance on the oily water. Or maybe, he ponders as he shifts closer to Apollo’s warmth, they’ll stay right here.

“Fifty bucks says the blue ones get the next goal.” Apollo’s voice interrupts Midnighter’s internal ramble. He grunts in agreement without even thinking about it, then snorts.

“We don’t have a fifty. And why would I care anyway?”

“Because it’s fun,” Apollo turns and grins at him, eyes crinkling around the edges. Midnighter ponders for the 47th time that week how old his partner actually is. “Because people do that when they watch sport.”

Midnighter’s not sure what all this ‘people’ business is tonight. Last week it was ice cream, the week before that it was the flocks of dull, grey pigeons that mobbed old ladies in the park. Apollo clung to every last memory of their past life that surfaced, examining it from every which way and inside out. Midnighter could never deny him these moments. He had memories of his own crawling their way out of his subconscious. He ignored them; he didn’t need any more images of blood or screaming or broken bodies on the ground.

Apollo is watching Midnighter watching him, and Midnighter finally blinks and looks away. “Okay, but I’m not betting money.”

Nodding, Apollo looks around for something to substitute as a wager. But there’s nothing between them but dirt and the congealing pizza neither of them need to eat. “The moon,” Apollo finally suggests.

“You can’t bet the moon.” Midnighter scoffs.

Apollo rolls his eyes, like it’s Midnighter being who’s being absurd. “I could go get it, no problem.”

Midnighter is smirking even as the computer in his head is whirring into life; informing him that Apollo could indeed, with a 97.2% chance of success. Gravitational distortions, tidal predictions and mortality estimates start scrolling though Midnighter’s mind before he turns out. “Fine, okay. Next goal to the blue and I get the moon.”

Apollo nods and goes back to watching the game.

Four minutes later, the world is spared a catastrophic ending, as a red player sweeps the white and black ball into the net. The pub breaks into a roar again. Apollo laughs.

Five hours, and one football match, two professional snooker games and seven horse races, later and the pub is closing up for the night. The pizza somehow disappeared without either of them realising, although both of them have oil-stained gloves. Apollo now owns the two dumpsters in the alley below, ten pigeons and the Golden Gate Bridge. Midnighter is in possession of three distant stars, four sovereign nations, seven declarations of love and a promise of a blowjob.

Sated from whatever it was that inspired tonight’s obsession, Apollo rolls over and stretches like a cat. Midnighter watches him appreciatively, and Apollo grins at him, arching his back luxuriously.

“What?” Midnighter can’t help but grin back. He feels a fool, wasting the night away making ludicrous wagers on things he no longer even remembers the rules to.

“Bet you we do this again tomorrow night.”

“Doubtful.”

Apollo hums. “I think you’re right.” He sits up suddenly, brushing gravel and dirt from his uniform. “I ache all over. And that pizza was awful.”

“Thank you.”

Apollo shakes his head, then rolls over and lays back down on top of Midnighter, pressing against his length, fingers absently playing with the buckles on Midnighter’s sleeve. “Thank you, for going along with a silly game.”

Midnighter tries to shrug, but it’s hard with Apollo’s weight on top of him.

“I bet I love you,” Apollo murmurs into the leather of Midnighter’s cowl.

“I don’t know if I’d put money on that,” Midnighter replies. Apollo’s not the only one who can be a contrary bastard when he feels like it.

Apollo huffs and wraps one toned arm around Midnighter’s neck, snuggling closer. “You can be so full of shit, sometimes.”

Midnighter chuckles, and he can feel Apollo laugh along with him. “I’ll bet.”


End file.
